work...

cold and cold and cold,
i went on a cleaning spree.
there is carrot cake and secrecy tonight.
there is clean and cleaned and cleansed.

__________


about a year ago i started writing a memoir-ish thing and have picked it back up this week. it's much easier now than it was when i started it but still quite hard. it's strange going back in time like this and some things are still too early to try to write down. but it's a good project- one without the limits of time or due date or genre. it's a mish-mash of things but i don't think i'll add any pictures. it is a text, solely. i want no other art-form clouding it. it is its own painting... or will be, i hope. i want it to stand on its own. one day. but for the time being, it keeps its own schedule. i make no demands of it. i wait for it to spring up and shout for attention. i bend to its will, not the other way around. for all i know, it'll never be finished. all i can do is work on it as i'm able. this week has been good in that respect but next week could be an entirely different prospect. memoir-ish things are tricky that way, i suppose. and it's best not to rush such a thing anyhow.

arg...

it's still cold. bitter biting morning cold. i hate it.

yesterday on The Jog, my inner ear ached horribly from all that damned icy wind flooding in to it. no fun at all and, even though obeying The Almighty Jog is a pleasure and necessity not to be toyed with, i have given myself permission to put it off a couple extra hours today in the hope it'll warm up just a little and my ears won't freeze as i run around in the big ol' silent and cold vineyard.

i do not own ear-muffs. i think ear-muffs are stupid when you live in california. there's no excuse for any of us to wear ear-muffs. ever. people in the real cold are the only people who should be allowed to sport them. here in california, it's just fashion when someone puts them on. that weirdo "hi, i'm a dude who likes to wear unicorn t-shirts" fashion. every now and then i see a guy who can really, seriously pull that look off but it's rare. very rare. but there are legions of men out here trying to pull it off themselves. with ear-muffs. barf. puke. barf. throw up a little in my mouth.

all this to say i am already doing laundry. not because i want to but as an excuse to run the dryer and have my little cottage flooded with warmth. the pilot light is out on the heater and i don't feel like singing any thing on my face today. the dryer will suffice.

change...

it is cold here. it has been for the past two days. it looked sunny and bright and warm through the window, but i stepped out in to a strong icy wind. seems autumn has actually arrived. all orange and yellow. and if not for the wind, it might have been warm.

autumn is a strange time for me. there's something in how the light comes down. there's something in all this yellow that makes me feel some type of quiet longing. a memory in the body, i suppose. this is the time of year when things seem more valuable and more special than they would have in summer... and the days stretch out. not quite long but slow. it makes me wish i were independently wealthy so that me and my sweetie could sleep in and stay under our quilts all day, hide from the cold outside and watch movies in bed. no work, no fatigue, no responsibility; just us, snuggled up against the strange longing that finds me each year in this season. i don't know why. i don't know if it's good or bad, just that it's the case... and it has everything to do with all the yellow coming down from the trees.

a little gathering...

i was talking with one of my friends the other day about the importance of curation, that it is an art unto itself... and one that is so much harder than you'd think. it took me a solid 8 hours to hang a show once. no kidding. finding the right pieces, the right arrangement... it takes a lot of work and a ton of sensitivity. each piece in a show has a conversation with the other work. especially the piece it is hanging right next to. and so the premise of the show, the statement, whatever it is you want the show to DO or communicate, weighs in heavily on how the work is hung. i'm a bit rusty at it, for sure. so this is just a little attempt to start thinking along those lines again- a little gathering of pieces from the last 3 years, all of which are still in my possession, all of whom i love. pretend it's a real exhibition and let me know what you think.



don't you ever tell...



untitled (protect)
24" x 17.5"
oil on canvas
angela simione, 2008


untitled
15" x 11"
mixed media on paper
angela simione, 2009


objects
20" x 24"
glitter on wood
angela simione, 2008


Charlotte ("the faces do not count.")
36" x 12"
crochet
angela simione, 2007


Portrait of the Artist as a Child
20" x 16"
oil on canvas
angela simione, 2007


gift
11" x 14"
watercolor on paper
angela simione, 2008


warning
14" x 11" (framed)
embroidery
angela simione, 2009




(this last piece should definitely be photographed on a white ground... and without the glare, but you get the point.)

continuing...

i met my maids first thing this morning. the shadows and highlights in their aprons want to dance today- slow and specific... intimate, delicate, just a hint and a nudge, a feather on my wrist.

this is when painting feels the most natural, the most powerful- when you can see, with complete assurance, what the piece is asking for, the direction it wants to go...

this is when i am happiest. when all my heart smiles.

yes!

the weekend is here. and there are no rules. but there is required reading and black oil paint and black gouache and black ink. yes yes yes. and hazelnut coffee. plenty of hazelnut coffee. no. gratuitous coffee. copious amounts of coffee. all hazelnut, all the time. non-stop hazelnut. hazelnut til you drop. get some!

and then the resulting quickness...

between reading and jogging, my mind is on fire today. out in the vineyard, the most beautiful and pained thoughts came to me and, of course, me without my notebook. and of course, i lose most of those gorgeous thoughts and phrases by the time i get back home. nevertheless, my hands are flying, grabbing at words, making poems, making memoirs, telling secrets, finally, finally, and the swell and the stab and the awful aching to turn over the big jug of all the things that have gone unsaid. let them all come tumbling out. get disowned. fuck it. finally. just tell the world. don't let the monsters hide in your hair. tell it. tell it. tell on them. raise one finger and point because you're the only one who knows where they're hiding.

and so i write and write and write and there is nothing else for me to do today but go on telling.

when the work is done, i promise i'll share.
i'll let you check my hair.

book reveiw... (not for the faint of heart)

this morning,
already,
i read The Shawl by Cynthia Ozick...
my heart in pieces at the very beginning today but, like i said before, sadness is no reason to run and hide.
not from Art...

and The Holocaust must be remembered...


this little short story and the following novella is one of the most beautiful and painful things i've ever read, ever held in my hands. ever. like a baby almost. like a secret. it smothers and then it softens. the words fly out and stick in you. i tucked a little letter pressed print of a mother holding her infant child into the flap of the front cover. a mother whose face is turned away. her features hidden... and just like in this story, her features aren't the point. they aren't important. her motherhood is what is important. her desire to protect her child, to have her child kept safe... a child that is gone... to watch her daughter learn to dance and maybe paint, maybe write, commit poems to memory, to wear a blue dress with shining black buttons, to butterfly through youth and smile. smile.

it is a tall order when confronted with the past. this past. camps and electrified fences and boiling water and all the horrors devised to save on bullets. and rape.

but we have to listen. we have to remember. we have to at least try to understand. try to see what went on there. try to give rise to a new language that can actually hold these stories... find a new line that is finally strong enough to draw out the map of these grim and gross and horrible things. mussel manner. that's what's left if we don't find the right words. if we ignore the ache to find them. mussel manner. the dead walking around on the sticks of human legs. mussel manner. and all that's required of us, the ones who weren't there and who don't know, is to listen. just listen. not with pity. pity doesn't cut it.

and neither does sympathy.

it has to be deeper than that. sympathy, in the face of this, is laughable. it's a shame. there's no way to do it. you must let your heart break, wide open, be filled with black birds, and prove that you're human. give them honor. sacrifice your happy life, even just for the few hours it takes to read this work, to listen. just listen. listening is where hope grows. it's what we can do to become better than what we are.

make your life deeper.
buy this book.

value...

lately i've been thinking about the positive side of anonymity-
a form of protection, security, a safe warm place to be...

and though my portraits are generally about forced anonymity, this aspect is something i need to look at too... that, in some ways, these women are also protected, not objectified. they feel no embarrassing exposure. they can step forward if they want to. these women aren't harmed by me. not that i ever felt i was doing them any harm, but realizing that there is a positive quality to anonymity helps me proceed with a greater strength: i know they won't be hurt. i know they will always remain safe.

the wage...

hmmmmmm... it could be too soon to jump into her diaries. yesterday, i spent a pretty hefty chunk of the day with them, off and on between projects, and by 4 in the afternoon i was beginning to feel more than slightly disillusioned and sad about life. no good. but the writing is just so beautiful and i can run around in it because i know these things she's describing... and reading her work makes my writing better- more intricate, more subtle, more meaningful. i don't want to back away from her art just because it might make me sad. my work does the same thing to people sometimes and i've always counted that as a good quality... that the work can be responded to emotionally, intensely... not that i am comparing my paintings to a Plath poem, just that the experience of sadness isn't something i should use to run away from good work- work that sparks and flies around the room and makes you look at your own life from a new and different angle... work that makes your own work grow and turn.

i will have to take the diaries in doses though, i think. they're pretty intense. the last time (the first time) i read them, i was in my last year in college and had other things to read so it took me about 4 months to read them all. i read it on the train to school and back home everyday. i read it on the weekends after my projects were satisfied. sometimes i even left the house to do "errands" so that i could sit somewhere and read them without any interruption or outside expectation. it's when i started writing again. seriously writing. my love of poetry woke back up because of this collection and i've been hot for it ever since. it's a slightly painful form of inspiration, i will admit. it takes a lot out of me. i've always thought that poetry is harder than painting. a landslide harder. a piece of writing seems to ask more from the person with the pen than a painting does. paintings seem to have an outside opinion that, at some point (for me anyway), i can relinquish control to and the work becomes itself. it stops being my work. it's its own work.

in the end, the work takes care of me... not the other way around.

stitches...

another one of the little lovely humble things i've been keeping all to myself...


warning
14" x 11" (framed)
embroidery
angela simione, 2009

inspired by the little sign i made myself that was hanging on my fridge. this will be hung up in the kitchen as soon as i'm done writing this post, right in line with the front door so that it's one of the first things you see when you walk in. no longer a warning to self, i suppose. i love the aggressiveness of this little piece. embroidery can be tough too, ya know.

it makes me want to put together an entire show- all embroidery, all red and white. a fun and creepy little side-project to dream about, for sure.

p.s. sorry for all the reflective glare. i was excited and couldn't wait for the sun to shove off to the other side of the sky. :)

for your reading pleasure...

two very cool things i forgot to mention yesterday:

the new issue of FOU is up and it contains such a beautiful and jarring poem by my beloved radish king. here.

and the new issue of ANTLER is out too! check it out. especially if you've got a penchant for "pretty porn". you'll definitely get your fix. :) and the ANTLER blog is shaping up to be quite a gem as well.

and as for my own reading, i finished the little murder mystery i'd been toting around last night and the very second i finished it i thought, "go get the journals". Sylvia Plath's Journals. i don't know why it's such a good follow up but it is and i read pretty far in to it last night in bed. this is my second go around with them. they are beautiful and sad and, even though it scares most people when i say this, it feels like reading my own diaries... only much more well written. ha! but i understand her work in a way that i've understood few others. she is one of my biggest influences. her work simultaneously made my world bigger and more intimate the moment i found her. her work is as clear to me as talking to myself in the mirror. exactly so. it makes me both sad and angry that so many people only see her death when they hear her name. so many people jump directly to the whole "she baked her head" crap and they've never even exposed themselves to her work. and what a huge loss. huge. her work was, and IS STILL, brilliant. beyond special and beautiful. beyond, beyond, beyond. poets today are still trying to catch up with her. she's just that damn good.

process...

i am back with my maids. back in the shadows of aprons. back in the subtle shifts... body language, pose, tilt... all the small corners that belie the little secrets, all the untold things, the history that went unrecorded, unnoticed, not shared, not held, not made warm. all that's been hidden and forgotten. that's why all the black. that's why all the white.

it isn't easy. this work has a weight that i struggle with. but it's so much better than i am that i'm sold on struggling with it for as long as it takes.

my neighbors asked me when i'll stop painting the maids. i said "when they're done with me". they started giving me ideas for new paintings after that... a different subject matter in spite of what i'd just said. suggestions... none of which i want and none of which i need. i wasn't offended. they don't understand. it took me a quite awhile to learn how to respect my practice too... i need to be right where i am. i trust this work and i know others will trust it too. i learned well and good how to trust the work a long time ago. i move in the direction it points. i take the tools i'll use and no more. and when i get tired and beaten, they say "rest". i curl up with my books and crochet hooks and wander off for awhile. i get warm and rested and then i come back.

breathe hard...

already with my black oil this morning. already. :)
and tons of scribbling in my notebook too.

but The Jog awaits and i can't let up when it comes to that. 5 months in and 2 inches disappeared from my waistline, not to mention the wonderful wide-open calm that rolls in after breathing hard and stomping and sweating my way through the big ol' morning vineyard.

there are NO TRESPASSING signs up now but the owner said they don't apply to me so i am thankful for those signs. no bad-mood tourists to ruin my day at the start. no grimaces and judgement. tourists are full of grimaces and judgement. at least the ones who make their way out here. they are covered in sneers. i have no clue what that's about but it's true. it makes no sense. i'm glad they've been barred. the air and space is mine and the signs ensure i don't have to share it.

i'm beginning to feel pretty again. it's been awhile since i felt that way and it's nice. i've missed my angles. i'm happy to see them returning. i've got the same insecurities most women have and, yeah i know it's all unreasonable and blah blah blah, but i'm finally starting to feel strong again... and that's the thing i've missed most.

before i slipped that disk in my back (twice!), i felt strong and capable and i knew i was able to defend myself if i had to. for the past 2 years, i haven't felt that way at all. i couldn't defend myself one bit. now, 5 months in and 2 inches lost and all sorts of leg muscles later, i've at least got a fighting chance. i can at least out-run someone. and just knowing that i can if i had to makes me feel better, more capable, more independent, a bit less fearful, a bit less worrisome, and a lot more pretty. it's a good feeling and a good reason to keep it up.

and my little girl dog loves it too. she bounces along at my side and smiles at the world and on days when i don't want to do it for myself i do it for her. her happiness and health is way more important to me than my own and i don't let myself off the hook when it comes to that. it's my job to love her and give her the things she needs. it's my job to make sure she is healthy and happy and has space to play in. she likes the smells and the birds and the shade of the tall vines. she is always so excited, full of endless happiness when we head out to the vineyard. i aspire to be more like her in that regard- every day is the best day ever to her... and i want to feel that way too. The Jog can (and does) supply that.

once again, it's a morning thing. part of my wake-up.
why wait til the end of the day to feel that the day is good?

practice, practice, practice...

this is what today's practice looks like-


untitled
15" x 11"
mixed media on paper
angela simione, 2009

anonymity
redaction
identity
a document of Unimportance
a document of lost stories
unknown histories
histories that don't matter

who gets to be pictured and who doesn't...

and those white socks just kick me right in the heart.

ART RANT! ART RANT!

i really shouldn't but i just can't help myself. i'm lugging out my soap box and that's just that-

i've been noticing a horribly annoying tendency in artists, especially poets, to accuse others of plagiarism over the slightest similarity. and when i say slight, i mean SLIGHT! it's obnoxious. seems a lot of people in the world are convinced of their own originality and that they are so stunningly brilliant and unique that anything they may have in common with another person is somehow an act of theft on the part of the other. it is beyond ridiculous.

there's a blog i check up on that, for the sake of my own ease and happiness, i should really stop reading. but i go on torturing myself with this persons inane and pompous drivel because, at one time, i actually really admired her. i thought her writing was gorgeous and important and i felt really close to the work she was doing. but then i started noticing some rather severe crimes against art being committed on her blog- namely posting other people's poetry (famous dead people's poems) on her blog without giving proper credit i.e. the name of the poet underneath the poem! and when the compliments started rolling in about what a great writer she is, she did nothing to correct it. she let it ride and took credit for work that isn't hers. and a person who holds an MFA knows the importance of siting sources correctly and diligently. please.

then this morning, i stumble over to her blog to find her accusing someone else of stealing lines from her. she even supplied a link! audacity shining bright! pot calling the kettle black! to put it as mildly as i can, it's just... well... tacky. and since i'm not tacky (or at least not as tacky as she is), i will not post any links here about her. publicly shaming someone isn't cool, first off, and secondly, if you've got a real act of plagiarism to deal with there are proper channels for that. come on!

and just to put it out there- references to 'teeth' and 'milk' and 'brambles' and 'petticoats' ARE NOT UNIQUE IN POETRY! OH MY GOD! it's so commonplace that it's laughable! and i ain't saying i've never used those words before, i have. and i probably will again. they're beautiful words. but i don't get on my high-horse and accuse another person of something as serious as plagiarism for using the same words in one of their poems. it's just so ridiculous and wholly pathetic. oh, i am steamed! i mean SERIOUSLY! AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! this is why the majority of people in the world think poetry is stupid and a big annoying waste of time! this crap right here! I'M even annoyed with poetry right now because of this crap and i LOVE poetry! geez!

and i know... i should just stop reading this person's blog but i can't. i just can't. i have to keep reading it so that i can keep pointing this shit out and hopefully, one day, she'll realize that there are people in the world that aren't being fooled and maybe, MAYBE, hopefully, she'll wake up and stop all this (though i doubt she even knows my blog exists and, if she does, i'm sure she thinks i'm a twirp). i'd love to be able to go back to being a fan of her work but i just can't be someones fan when they're a bad person. my morality won't allow it. and presenting the work of someone who COMMITTED SUICIDE as your own does, in fact, make you a bad person. a weak person at best.

and i don't care that this particular offense i'm referencing was over 6 months ago, no correction or amends have been made and it still sickens me.

so for now, i suppose i'm a watch-dog. i'll get off my soap-box now and begin my day. snarl.

just so you know...

angela simione, 2008

love you...

it is too cold a night to write anywhere but a notebook. and too happy. there are wonders in the world and i'm blessed to know just a few of them.

sweet dreams.

hysterical...

well, no nudity at the doctor's office yesterday. yippee! but of course they always want to schedule that kind of thing before you leave if you're a woman. i swear the idea of the "wandering uterus" still exists in medicine. ha! they can deny it as much as they like but i've noticed that every single friggin time i go to the doctor for anything, they always want to schedule an appointment to look at my female parts. always. and there is absolutely no history of any kind of cancer in my family. none. but there's the not-so-secret assumption that if you've got a uterus you're insane or at least prone to insanity and that the uterus will birth out all your dark secrets. hysteria! what a bunch of weirdos.

today i get to go on an art store shopping spree. maybe i'll let my uterus pick a few things out too. :)

fear and portraiture...

ah mannnnnnn... i've got a doctor's appointment this morning that i forgot all about. geez. i really don't want to go. i hate the doctor's office. hate, hate, HATE. i always get nervous they're gonna ask me to do something humiliating... like take all my clothes off and call everyone in to the room to poke and prod and gawk and comment. not all that far fetched, actually. something along those lines happened once and, now that i think of it, i should have sued or at least complained and got that doctor in trouble but that doesn't have anything to do with today and there should be no reason for the removal of clothing at this particular appointment. at any rate, i've been pacing back and forth since i woke up. i'm all anxiety. silly. i'll go, i'll go. i'll be a good little girl and do what i'm told, i suppose. ugg. maybe it'll give me something to write a poem with. that's looking at the bright side, right? ha! art-nerd alert! :)

i think it's safe to say i've been on quite the poetry kick for the passed few weeks. probably due to my two mini-vacations and being away from my paint, but it sure has been nice. i got a bit of painting done yesterday now that i'm back at home and it felt really good and i kept bouncing back and forth between my canvas and my notebook, one practice feeding the other.

the redaction pieces i've been making have become quite a nice tool in my bag as well. when i first started making them about two years ago, i had no idea what i'd use them for, all i knew was that i liked them and felt like it was a beneficial thing to do. i've always seen them as art-pieces in their own right and want to frame a whole bunch of them, but lately i've been using them for book-making and poetry stuff like the one in my post below. but not all of them will get used that way. some of them are meant to stand alone- act as a little scrap of evidence... allude to a lost history or identity... to talk about loss and silence and fragmentation. they are portraits in their own right. little biographies. the dangle of a secret.


and i am sleeping in my battle
9.25" x 6"
redacted book page
angela simione, 2009

you know her...

(click the photos to enlarge)

one of the little lovely humble things i've been wrapped up in. quiet work that, in spite of its simplicity and smallness (or maybe due to it), feels so very important and honest. a little tool with which i am learning the world. poetry and thoughtfulness. this work soothes me. it makes me better than i am.






you know her
10.5" x 5.5"
mixed media artist book
angela simione, 2009

transcription:

she wore the white dress and white shoes
snow-white
under the little wire clamps
pale, nondescript
harmless
her hand to her mouth
she'd had such trouble
cutting. cutting and cutting and cutting.

fixing...

wednesday night is my night.
a night for dark and darker, darker still. my night.
secret meetings where all the unravelling is done. the strings pulled apart.
my tether loosed just a little. just a little, little.

my tears are not ugly.
and not my red face.
no comment about how blue blue eyes get during a good cry. no advice.
(that is not giving.)
no golden intentions, just the case,
the cause we all know, the disturbance
and Our Unexplainable,
the strict perfect chaos, the frozen, the freezing, the aftermath.
and then home.

then home.

to warm, to cool.
home
to home.

:)

do you ever wonder if god has a flavor?

humans have flavors.

when i die and god kisses me he'll leave my lips all full of nectarine sugar and i'll go skipping off like a child to go see what flavors saints and angels carry.

i'm convinced there's lots of kissing in heaven. there must be! and not in that sexual kind of way, in the "I'M SO HAPPY I CAN'T STAND IT!" kind of way. i get that way sometimes here down on earth. i kiss books and dogs and hands and feet and cheeks of boys and girls alike and other people's poems and i always ease out a breathy thank you too.

there's gotta be tons of kisses in heaven.

hope and F-bombs aplenty...

jim carroll's death is still heavy on my mind this morning in spite of the bright day or because of it. it is a strange low call that pushes, pushes, pushes to be good, to write, to mean it, every line, each word, the weight considered, endless, endless, a strange low call and the pen, toward something better than i am. and i don't care how cliched it sounds, it's the fact and the truth-

a voice whispers out of the slept-in sheets that says, "fuck it. it doesn't need to be 'good', it just needs to be done. fuck it if it's bad and fuck it if it's stupid, just do it. the point is in the ink and the pages turned and all the fluid that spills and leaks and seeps. be brave. be restless. say 'fuck it'. because fuck it if no one likes it and fuck it if they think it's useless and fuck it if people say poetry has no point and is stupid and indulgent. they're wrong. fuck em. write and write til your pretty little hands turn gnarled and useless and then learn to write with your teeth because that's what poetry needs, that's what poetry IS so just say 'fuck it' and go. go."

the light comes in all patchy down from the trees and the air has no weight to it and i wrote 12 pages in my notebook this morning. i am drinking coffee, my blessed hazelnut, and already i know the day is good. i can feel it. it has already been so kind to me. there is no touch of deception anywhere and there aren't any reasons to fear an ugly head rising out of the blankets. the newness is beautiful. the light spills and spills, the color of lemonade, the color a whisper might be. i am cooled. i am called to my books and my little puddles of black gouache. i have been making sweet little things these passed two weeks because that's what i needed around me. i haven't taken their picture because right now i need then all for me, no documents. i will share soon but for now the playful, easy work of investigation takes precedence. it is all process. it is all discovery. it doesn't matter if it's 'good' because it is GOOD. a tool of gentleness. a means to kindness. a way to practice sensitivity and thoughtfulness, a way of reaching toward delicacy. i will share, i promise. but today is for walking and looking and breathing hard, all wrapped up in good light and because i can, endless, endless, and a strange low beautiful whisper that says "fuck it".

circle, circle, circle...

my love, my love, my love...

you will be missed,
over and over again.
i will collect your pages
and keep you.

good-bye jim.



via the Radish King this morning.

ahhhhhhh...

a second day of grey drizzle in san francisco yesterday so i packed up the beautiful boxer i'm watching, locked my buddy's house up, and caravanned back out to wine-land for some love and sunshine. i just couldn't stay away on my sweetheart's day off. i'm such a whipped, romantic, little freak that way. :) and with another dog in the squad, inga (my rottweiler) is so jealous! ha! i'll be attempting The Almighty Jog this morning with both of them in tow. we'll see how it goes. it will at least present an opportunity for some laughs, i'm sure. and tangled leashes. i always feel sorry for professional dog-walkers. no matter how much a person might love dogs, it seems like a pretty stressful gig. super duper stressful. i would be a neurotic mess.

but tonight i head back to the city and won't return until wednesday. i've made a few plans that include museums and art-making and long walks up and down the long, tall streets. my waking rituals of coffee and scribbling in my notebook and jogging have been undisturbed by my changes in location recently and i am on the upswing- feeling excited by life and am flooded with lovely ideas daily. my sketch book (pages and pages of lists, really) is getting fat with reminders. yesterday while driving, a few golden lines of poetry floated in to my brain and i didn't want to lose them so i actually flipped open my notebook on my lap and scrawled them out, huge and childlike, without looking so i could keep my eyes on the road. i haven't done that in years! i know it sounds a bit dangerous but what's art without a little risk? :)

the sun is out, bright and good, and two dogs are sleeping peacefully at my feet being good little girls. i have a big mug of hazelnut coffee and a wide-open day in front of me. just as quick as a rainy day found me, a sunny one followed. i am happy and alert and in love and so so so thankful for the life (and lives) around me.

and then a strange and grey afternoon...

on second thought, maybe beginning the day with "Satan Says" was a bad idea. my thinking has been, off and on, fairly morbid and sad all day. and the grey drizzle that persisted here in san francisco didn't help. i did manage to get out for awhile in spite of the weather but then proceeded to get my self lost looking for a gallery i've been hearing about but have never been to and then wasted a 1/2 hour looking for parking once i finally figured out where it was. once inside, i felt pretty happy but, i must say, all in all it's been a pretty rough day. having no plan and no one to talk to is pretty much the definition of a bad day for me. and if one has to be alone, it is much better to be alone inside your own home. i miss my sweetie like crazy. after 4 years together, sleeping in the same bed, drinking coffee in the morning and all that goodness, it has become hard to spend a night away from him. see! look what the rain and sharon olds have done to me! arg! or could it just be the wage of love? ha! i am a sappy romantic, after all, and he is my favorite person in the whole world anyway.

a new and different morning...

awake and quiet in san francisco. the fog has yet to lift. i am on my second large cup of cafe-acquired coffee and have decided that the best thing for me to do is to bypass having a plan for the day.

yesterday before i left my little home, my copy of sharon olds' 'Satan Says' showed up in the mail and i began reading it instantly. it is one of three books i brought along for my little stay in the city and i began my morning with it and such a lovely angered spark of honesty and courage and inappropriate vocabulary surges as a result. i love her work. every single poem i've read. i will read it all and then i will read it again and again and again. also in tow- rebecca loudon's 'Radish King' (buy it!) and my little murder mystery 'Quiet as a Nun' which i will probably finish tonight. lucky for little me there is a slew of used book-stores here and oddities shops and art galleries and all sorts of things that make my heart cry out in sheer ecstatic thankfulness.

san francisco is my favorite city. it is beautiful and jam packed with history and culture and every corner is mysterious and interesting and worth the walk. this is why my plan for today is to have no plan- save practicing the new mantra. it is the only rule. no more, no less. besides, it's raining right now and until the sky clears and goes blue, i am content to sit inside and redact book pages and make poems while i house sit.

sigh...

in two hours i will be leaving. two mini-vacations back to back. i am half happy half sad. the vast majority of my loves are right here inside my own home... my sweetheart and our little girl dog being the two best of them... my most cherished.

relieved...

off and on, i toy with the idea of publication. but then i realize how new i am at this whole poetry thing. though i've been writing my entire life, it hasn't really been all that long that i've been serious about it in the "professional" sense. and so i've decided that the question of publication isn't a good one right now. it puts too much pressure on the work. far too much and it damages what i'm trying to get after- it clouds the road. it mucks everything up. besides, here in my own place i feel much safer releasing my little blurbs out in to the world. here, it's understood that perfection isn't really the point. it's more about exposure than it is refinement. and since i've decided that publication in its traditional form isn't really the way i want to go right now and that it's something to look forward to in the future, i've been writing like crazy and exploring different modes and not feeling any pressure whatsoever to make a poem be this or that or fit in with the rest. it is freeing and i feel pleased with the work and that's exactly what i'm after- a release.

reading...

i have picked back up the joy of reading (much inspired by my dear sweet Radish King) and who would've guessed what a big beautiful difference that seemingly small act can make in one's life. i'm always reading poems and blogs and stuff but i finally got back to the novel. and it's a murder mystery of all things! ha! i haven't read one of those since i was 14! and geez that writing is good! and i've also been working on redaction poems almost constantly for the past 2 weeks, building a stack of the little beauties pretty much daily, and have begun to compile them in to strange little poetry books of my own. books, books, books everywhere and it really does build up quite a nice life. quite nice indeed.

today...

there is a new daily mantra- set in place by a woman wiser than i. endlessly wise and full of hope, she said, "be gentle with yourself". i write it over and over again in my notebook each morning. it is the new alpha and omega. the first line, the last line. it is that same old practice of writing sentences in school, only this time it isn't due to a fuck-up and this time it isn't an act of punishment. it is an exercise to believe in the good, to believe in time- that i have some. i've needed this belief for quite a long while.

the sky is pale. that blue you find on a blue-eyed dog. and on a dog's eye, it is disconcerting and puts you on guard. it is shocking. spooky like. but up on that big ol' sky, it ain't spooky at it. it is quiet and calm. it is just waking up, stretching out a gentle fold, warming, casting its delicate tint over everything beneath. it is a whisper.

today, i will obey The Jog and take my new hot pink sports-bra on its maiden voyage. :) i will eat nectarines and get myself clean and wear something that makes me feel good. i will play inside all my little projects and not be too serious and i will remember, over and over again, the new mantra. i will attempt evenness. i will stretch out. i will reach toward warmth.

there is FAR too much to catch you up on and finding the starting place in the blurr of the past week is a tall order but the ball must be got rolling

so we will start with ART!

between last night and this morning, this is the poem i wrote.
a new voice-



act of waking





she is a difficult harbour
with the most wonderful compartments;
attractive lakes
and rivers that should be loved.
travelling over-night
to her mouth, that North,
her home waters, the still.
parallel to a pill-box.

she had been painted-
hard against yesterday.
a fissure in the mast.
the ice is never ordinary;
expectation read
in the briefest of nods.
her home waters
parallel. a pill-box.






angela simione, 2009

happy birthday to me!

yep. 29. oh my! i'm just going to start telling people i'm 30. or at least 30ish. i can probably get away with that for the next 3 years or so. ha!

tonight, the show opens and my art-school homies will be in attendance. i'm so excited! especially to see them. i think the i-hate-my-birthday cycle might finally be broken this year, thank goodness. come one, come all!

and after that, i'm taking a little spur-of-the-moment mini-vacation so i'll be away from the computer for a couple days but that might just be the best part about it. the internet is so stealthy and i lose a bit more time than i'd like to every day to it. technology is wonderful... too wonderful to say NO to sometimes and i'm anxious to get back to just scribbling in my notebook, writing some real letters, and not scrambling to check my email every other minute.

my grandma called and sang happy birthday to me in her soft, southern belle lilt which was extra cute and brought tears to my eyes. the day's off to a great start.

work in progress...

might be nice as an embroidery...




baptismal





the water dripped down
gave way to red and gold

scraped my palms



the water rose.






angela simione, 2009